Punk Rock Princess
by Hotshot
Summary: Roger has three addictions heroine, girls, and music. All of them are an important part of the rocker lifestyle but it's taken Roger a while to realize it. Based on the Something Corporate song.


Disclaimer: Don't own the characters. Don't own the song. They belong to Jonathan Larson and Something Corporate respectively.

Punk Rock Princess

Hotshot

He was standing there, five feet away from her, as the music pumped from the speakers, the pulse of the music matching the pace of his heart. He watched her as she raised her arms above her head, screaming and bouncing from foot to foot in ecstasy. He laughed.

She turned to him. He avoided her gaze, closing his eyes and tipping back his head as the end of the song washed over him. Just the strumming of a guitar; pure and simple. He breathed it in, hoping to take some of the passion with him when life returned to normal in a few hours.

He opened his eyes and there she was in front of him. Her dark hair was illuminated by the stage lights and her pale face was hidden in the shadows. He knew every inch of that face by heart, every scar, every mole, every little imperfection.

"What the fuck are you laughing at, Davis."

He knew the words although he couldn't hear them over the roar of the crowd. She had been saying the same to him since her older brother had taught them to curse.

He just shook his head and began laughing once again as the drums began to pound before dying off quickly. Roger threw his head back in elation, letting loose a whoop that was echoed by the rest of the crowd. He pulled her around, forcing her to face the stage again and with one arm wrapped around her thin waist pulled her back against him.

He raised his cup of watered down beer in homage to the song they were beginning to play. Most of the crowd held up lighters and Roger couldn't help but frown. Fuck it; sixteen was old enough to buy a lighter. Sixteen was certainly old enough to smoke. He'd been doing that since he was thirteen anyway. Fuck the bastards who were breaking down on selling cigarettes around town. At least sixteen was old enough to trick them into selling him beer. He chugged a good half of the beer and passed it to her as the singer approached the mic again. His high, sad voice made a shiver travel down the length of Roger's spine and raised goose bumps on his arms.

She tipped her head back against his chest as she downed the remainder of the beer. She immediately began to yell out the lyrics along with the throngs of fans that surrounded them. He joined her, though significantly more on key.

Everything was perfect, the dark venue, the lights from the stage illuminating her face, the pushing of the crowds around them, and the waves of music washing over them. He leaned forward over her shoulder and when she turned to look at him he pressed his lips to hers. She didn't seem surprised in the least, just kissed him back, letting the music and the perfection of the moment fade into the background.

_Maybe when the room is empty,  
Maybe when the bottle's full.  
Maybe when the door gets broke down,  
Love can break in._

His heart was thudding in his chest, so large and troubled that it had reached his throat and was doing a good job of strangling him. He couldn't breath, couldn't even think. The room almost felt as though it was beginning to spin.

Suddenly a hand grabbed hold of his, fingers lacing together with his. He looked down at the entwined hands first before his gaze followed her arm up to her shoulder, her neck and her face. She was grinning like a Cheshire cat, running one hand through her sleek black hair as her eyes watched him closely.

"There are so many people," he muttered, hanging his head, ashamed of his nerves.

"When has that ever bothered you?" she stepped closer to him, wrapping arms around his sides.

"Those were friends," he rationalized. "I don't know anyone out there."

"_I'm _going to be out there." She said dryly.

He looked down, straight into her eyes and took a deep breath. As he released it he felt his stomach clenching tightly, his throat closing up as a familiar sound reached his ears; the roaring of a crowd.

"I don't think I can do this." He tried to backpedal, wanting to put more space between himself and the stage.

She grabbed him by the front of his t-shirt, stopping his movement completely. She bounced up to her tiptoes, kissing him forcefully.

The transition from friend to boyfriend had been an easy one for him to make. It had happened at a concert last year and it was like nothing had changed. The banter was still there, and the comfort and the ease, but the sex and making out were a definite improvement. Every time she kissed him, even after this past year, he still felt as though they were the only ones in the room. It made him relax, and now was no exception.

She backed off a step, still holding both of his hands in hers.

"You are going to be amazing tonight, Davis." She said, swinging their hands before she let go.

He took another deep breath. All the tension was gone. He grinned, nodding.

"I'll see you after the show."

She nodded and began walking back towards the seating. She turned back to look at him as he called out her name.

"I love you." He told her.

She just smiled, pushing her hair back behind her ear and ducking around the curtain.

Roger reached down beside him, taking a gentle hold on the neck of his new guitar and began walking towards the curtains and the first stage ever to be graced with his presence.

As she had promised there she was sitting in the front row. And just as she had promised she was backstage waiting for him the second they were finished, her arms tight around his neck and her lips pressed tightly to his.

_Maybe when I'm done with thinking,  
Maybe you can think me whole.  
Maybe when I'm done with endings  
This can begin._

_This can begin.  
This can begin._

New York was beckoning to Roger, calling him to join the amazing underground music scene. Every day the pull of the city got stronger, and every day Roger felt that the confines of home were closing in just a little bit more. If he had been alone he would have left weeks ago, the day he turned eighteen.

Things weren't that simple. She was still there. She was going to school in the fall, a school close to home. As much as the music pulled at Roger he would never leave her like that, and so he was stuck here, letting possibility pass him by.

Then the phone call had come. Collins was in New York, just found an apartment and was looking for a few people to split the rent with. That alone wouldn't have been enough. Collins' friend had a band. They were looking for a singer. The high school band was over, nothing was going to come of it, and out of the blue Roger was presented with this. If there was no such thing as fate Roger didn't know what to call it.

That was why he had to talk to her. He knew in his heart that he wasn't going to New York, there was no way she would go for it. But he had to at least tell her about his wonderful opportunity, let her share in the happiness that he had been struck by early that morning at the thought of getting out. She was going to be an actress, she knew the feeling.

That was why he was here, shoving his way through the crowded house of some kid whose parents were out of town on vacation, climbing over and pushing his way past the drunk and high former classmates. She was here. She'd been begging him to come with her all week and he had politely declined every time; it wasn't his scene. He was here though, thoroughly frustrated at having combed the entire house and not found her.

He growled to himself, running a hand through his short curls as he looked around the main room again. He relented finally, grabbing himself a beer and settled against the wall, allowing himself to just sit and wait. Eventually she would have to wander through here.

Time passed slowly. People moved around shoving and yelling and motioning frantically to one another. A band began playing from somewhere in the backyard. All Roger noted was how badly they played. Under his breath he muttered about their lack of talent as he downed his beer, tossing the can aside.

He spotted a friend of hers passing by and grabbed her by the arm, "Have you seen her?"

She arched her eyebrows once she realized who it was that was speaking to her but replied, "Out back, by the music."

He nodded and released her, trying to wind his way through the crowds without coming to bodily harm.

The backyard was just as crowded with people as the inside of the house. Oh, this was going to be just great.

He rounded the corner and stopped dead in his tracks. There she was, wrapped in the arms of a letterman jacket, arms around his neck, and lips on his. His heart stopped and his insides flipped and clenched as they always did before his performances. He didn't even realize he had moved until he had thrown the jock away from his girlfriend. He punched the guy soundly across the face and knocked him to the ground before turning to glare at her. She stared right back, looking shocked, shocked but not sorry.

"Roger, I-"

"I'm leaving for New York in the morning. I thought I should tell you."

With that he turned and walked away, turning his back on the high school lifestyle and on all of these fake people.

He had to get away from it all. Things needed to change.

He needed a reason to get away. Well here was his reason.

- - -

His heart had been in his throat and his stomach somewhere around his knees before he'd climbed onstage. In fact, he'd puked in the bathroom five minutes before they took the stage. The old nerves were still there but she wasn't there to stay them with a kiss, and that was just fine with him. She had not only broken his heart, but everything that was part of him. He felt as though part of him had died, or in the very least been left behind.

They said it was good for him. Musicians needed heartbreak; it helped them write great songs. Roger had penned some amazing ones upon reaching the city. It still hurt but there was no looking back.

He was halfway through the set when he saw her. Red hair and pale, freckled skin stood out like a sore thumb among the bar's usual customers. Under the lights she seemed to be glowing.

She smiled at him and Roger's heart twitched in a way it hadn't in over a year. The remnants of nervousness faded away and he attacked his guitar and the microphone with renewed vigor when the pounding drum solo finished.

He hadn't expected her to wait but she was still sitting at the bar when the band left the stage. He sat down on the barstool next to her and without any prompting spoke as though he had known her for years.

"So what did you think?"

"You were a little slow the first half. Not off per se but something wasn't quite right. But after the middle of Somebody you were perfect. The music was a little more punk than my usual tastes, but you have a decent voice."

Roger smiled, intrigued. "Can I buy you a beer?"

"Make it a shot." The redhead replied, "and you may just get some conversation with that."

He ordered two shots and offered his hand, "Roger Davis."

"Hi Roger, I'm April." She said exuding a confidence that Roger found unbelievable attractive.

The promised conversation lasted until the bar closed and kicked them out. It earned Roger a phone number and a very eager kiss goodnight.

_If you could be my punk rock princess,  
I would be your garage band king.  
You can tell me why you just don't fit in  
And how you're gonna be something_

She was always in the crowd now. Every time Roger played, there was April, up in front or at the bar. Kissing her always calmed his nerves, holding her always made him happy, fucking her always made him feel like the rock god they had anointed him.

She met him backstage before the show tonight, her hair freshly dyed and the makeup around her eyes making them seem bigger than usual. The opening act was onstage and Roger was nervously tuning his guitar. She approached him and without even being asked kissed him hard on the mouth. It was a quick kiss but it had the needed effect. He relaxed, putting down his guitar and pulling her into his lap.

"I love you," he whispered, kissing her exposed shoulder.

"I love you too." She ran her fingers through his spiked haircut. "I'll see you after the show, okay?"

"Yeah, alright."

She kissed him one more time, "Good luck."

He watched as her figure retreated from the room, his thoughts interrupted by the laughter from the bassist. He looked over to find the young man lounging in an overstuffed chair, smoking a joint. He had obviously been watching them.

"What?"

"Man Rog, your girlfriend is tweaking."

Roger raised an eyebrow, "What the hell are you talking about Brian?"

"She's illing man, she needs a hit."

Roger scowled, "She doesn't do that shit." He stood up, knowing he was quite imposing in comparison to Brian's thin, slight frame.

He put up his hands, "okay man, whatever you say."

Roger scowled and picked up his guitar again as the openers began to file offstage. People had suggested that of April was on drugs. They had been dating for three months and Roger had never seen her do more than down enough alcohol for a hangover or smoke pot, but then he did the same. She had been living with him since two months in and not once had there been any indication… No, there was no way.

Onstage any thought went away. He approached the mic, throwing a broad grin at April, where she was seated at the bar. Last week she had told him that his voice was pure sex, and tonight he was inclined to make sure everyone in that club agreed with her. As the music throbbed from the speakers he brought his lips close to the mic and began to sing.

In the very least the show was a success. April all but jumped on him and he spun her around, causing her to shriek with laughter. When he set her down he kissed her like he hadn't seen her in weeks. When he pulled back he smirked.

"You want to head back to the loft?"

She shook her head, "I ran into a couple of friends. I'm gonna go out with them for a while."

Roger mimed a pout.

She laughed, "Don't worry baby, I'll still have plenty of energy left for you when I get in."

Roger laughed looking her over. He noticed that her fingers were twitching slightly. He frowned.

"April, you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." She bounced up to kiss his cheek, "See you in a few hours."

He looked after her for a moment before looking in Brian's direction. The bassist wasn't even paying attention. He bit his tongue, praying to God that the younger man wasn't right. No, there was no way he could have been seeing her this long and not know. All the same, rather than sticking around he packed up his guitar and headed back to the loft.

True to her word April came literally bouncing into their room a few hours later.

_Maybe when your hair gets darker,  
Maybe when your eyes get wide,  
Maybe when the walls are smaller,  
There will be more space._

Roger was exhausted. Not just physically. Yes, he was physically exhausted but the past year had wiped him out mentally as well. He had been in New York for over a year and had so little to show for it. He had joined the band upon arriving, his audition had been the night he had arrived and he had nailed it.

The rest of them were happy playing bars and clubs. Anything that happened outside of that was good but they were not looking to get signed.

The loft was a dump. The people were good, but the rent was getting more and more difficult to pay with all of them constantly out of work. Collins and April were still there, along with Benny, an old friend of Collins' and Benny's roommate from college, Mark, and Mark's girlfriend, Maureen. The only one with a steady job was Benny, sometimes Collins.

To top it all of he had suffered through a long week with a cough he could not seem to shake and everything seemed to be crashing down on him at once. It did not help in the least that they had a gig which he was unprepared for.

"Roger, you want to grab dinner with everyone else before we head over to the club. Maureen wants to go to the Life…" April trailed off as she walked into the room to see Roger stretched out across his bed and not even showered yet.

"Roger, you have a gig tonight."

"I think I'm going to call and tell them I can't make it." He muttered, coughing a few times and clearing his throat.

"What's wrong?"

He rubbed his hand over his face and through his hair, "I'm just so exhausted. I don't know how much longer I can live in this situation."

She watched him pensively for a moment. "I'll tell everyone to go to dinner without us. You stay here and relax. I'll be back in fifteen. Don't call tonight off just yet."

Roger fell back to the bed, closing his eyes and just relaxing. He did not know what she had planned but if it allotted him more relaxation and a way to feel better it would be worth it. The loft got quiet as its other inhabitants filed out and Roger closed his eyes, drifting off to sleep.

"Roger."

Someone was shaking him. "Baby, wake up."

His eyes opened and she grinned down on him, pulling him into a sitting position.

"Mmm… what?" He was not quite awake yet.

She giggled like a small child and began wrapping something around his arm.

He immediately tried to pull away from her. "The hell are you doing?" He spotted the lighter and spoon laying on the bedspread, along with a plastic bag with the remnants of white powder.

"Baby, do you trust me?" she whispered, her face very close to his.

He looked at her. It broke his heart to find out she was a user. It was almost as bad as finding out his girlfriend had been unfaithful at home. And yet, he could not bring himself to look away. He nodded.

She kissed him. "It'll make you feel so good baby, I promise."

That was all it took. He relaxed and she tightened the tourniquet around his arm. He winced and hissed softly as she slid the needle into his vein, but put up no further resistance.

"Let me show you how," she said, beginning to tie off her own arm. He did, and the lesson that night would serve him for quite a while.

The drug flooded his body, and by the time they reached the club Roger was feeling better than he had in months. He felt alive, more than alive. Every sense was heightened and every feeling magnified. It was almost perfect. Just like that the walls that had been closing in on him since he had moved to New York were gone.

_Maybe when I'm not so tired,  
Maybe you can step inside.  
Maybe when I look for things that  
I can't replace._

_I can't replace.  
I can't replace._

"You have a problem."

"I'm fine," Roger snapped. He slung his guitar strap over his shoulder and started towards the door.

The pale, scrawny boy blocked his way. Roger could probably have thrown Mark halfway across the room on his worst day so the effort was really futile. He tilted his head to the side.

"Don't make me hurt you Mark."

"You wouldn't." Mark's eyes narrowed.

Roger averted his gaze, choosing to stare out the window. He really just couldn't look Mark in the eye right then.

"I'm fine." He said again.

"You are a liar."

Roger held his hands out to his sides, a gesture of openness as his guitar hung by his side. "Look at me Mark, fucking look at me. I feel better than I have felt since I was a little kid and didn't know what worry was."

"And you'll be itching for a hit in an hour."

"Fuck off, Cohen." He tried once again to push past Mark and out of the room but again Mark got in his way.

"No Roger. You and April act like this doesn't affect anyone but the two of you, like it hasn't fucked up your band, or things around the loft. Why the hell do you think Benny left, huh? It wasn't because he wanted to marry Allison right away; it was so he could get away from all the shit going on around here. Collins thinks-"

"You know, Collins does a lot of thinking but he hasn't said much."

"You don't listen very well then. All he ever says is 'Roger, we should talk.' 'Roger how are you doing?' Even he's getting sick of it. You know he's looking at jobs in fucking Rhode Island and Massachusetts right? Places far away from here. Why the hell would he do that?"

"I'm not hurting anybody."

"Except yourself. You and April are missing everything because you're too high to see what's going on. Your lives would be so much better if-"

"If what Mark?" Roger interrupted. "You know when your life would get better? When you dump Maureen. I mean she cheats on you enough that you two could just swing the friends with benefits thing."

Mark shoved Roger hard, but the singer barely stumbled.

"Go to hell!" Mark spat. "We're all worried about you and all you can think about is how you-"

"I don't have time for this."

Roger went to push past the blonde and this time he succeeded. Mark let him go but as he reached the door he swore he heard a voice say quietly, "Just be careful."

He ignored it. It was just his conscience nagging at him.

There was no gig. There was not even practice. Carrying the guitar out of the loft was just an excuse. He met April in an alley a few streets away from the loft. She had the heroine almost ready and grinned at him, taking a seat on one of the packing crates.

"Took you long enough," she teased, greeting him with a kiss.

Roger shook his head, helping her to tie off her arm. "Mark was on my case again."

"Yeah, I got the riot act from Collins this morning," she agreed. She jumped a little as Roger slipped the needle under her skin, and then inhaled deeply.

"They just don't understand us, Roger."

He looked up at her. Something in him wavered slightly as all of what Mark had said crashed back upon him. It hurt. To have his best friends think of him as a disappointment hurt. It made him physically ache.

But there was always one thing that could make him feel better.

_  
If you could be my punk rock princess,  
I would be your garage band king.  
You could tell me why you just don't fit in,  
And how you're gonna be something._

April was out of his reach. She was gone. Just gone. As Roger sat in the alleyway with a needle in his arm that was all he could think about. She was dead. He could not bring himself to say the words, or for that matter, even think them for longer than a few seconds.

No, if he dwelled on it that meant it was real, and Roger wasn't ready to deal with that yet.

He placed the needle on the ground beside him and untied the rubber band around his arm before lighting a cigarette and waiting for the drugs to carry him away.

As he sat there his mind wandered back an hour or so. How could it not? It wasn't every day one saw a dead body, let alone the body of someone they loved. There had been so much blood. The bathroom was so red.

Red like April's hair.

The pink tinge left on the bathroom floor would stain. It would never come out. It would remain a permanent reminder of April's life and death. It would be there reminding Roger of April until the day he died.

Although, now that you mentioned it, that day may not have been too far off.

HIV. Fucking AIDS. He just couldn't believe it. They had been careful, hadn't they? Even with the high he was experiencing Roger could think back and recall all the times he had woken up unable to remember anything other than the prick of the needle and the rush of the drugs as they entered his system.

Shit.

Maybe April had the right idea. Maybe getting out early, rather than suffering, was the right idea. He thought back to her, laying there on the bathroom floor. She's looked peaceful and asleep, a perfect angel.

Except for those jagged cuts on her wrists.

The thought made Roger physically ill and he bent over to vomit on the ground. She was dead by her own hand. She had left Roger a note to tell him he was dying, hadn't even had the guts to tell him face to face. April had plenty of guts. She had more tattoos and piercings than Roger. She took on guys and girls twice her size. She had no problem stabbing a needle into her arm despite the danger. Yet she couldn't even tell the man she loved he was going to die before she offed herself.

She was so fucking selfish. He wanted to think that but it was impossible. He loved her too much to think she was anything shy of perfect. As much as he wanted to blame her, or blame anyone, he just could not do that.

April had wanted to quit. They had talked about it a few times after a close friend of hers died of AIDS. April had wanted to quit but could not find a reason that was good enough. Yes, her friends were on her case, but they would never abandon her. Yes, she had lost her job, but she could find another.

Apparently the threat wasn't enough. Apparently Roger wasn't enough. She was the one who supplied the needles, the smack. He would have thought she would have been safer. He wondered vaguely which one of them had gotten it first, but it didn't matter, they were fucking like rabbits.

He opened his eyes to find that while he had been sitting there it had gotten dark. The drugs had worn off, yet he still felt numb. Was this how he was going to feel now that she was gone? Was he going to be cold and unfeeling, and just float along though the everyday?

He was itching for another hit now too. God, how he suddenly hated that feeling, the fact that it possessed his whole body and mind. He should have been curled up somewhere in the loft bawling over the death of his girlfriend and here he was instead, sitting in a goddamned alley wanting to inject the drugs that were going to kill him and wanting nothing else.

He had to get away from this feeling. Things needed to change

April wanted to quit but needed a reason. Well here was his reason.

_If I could be your first real heartache,  
I would do it over again.  
If you could be my punk rock princess,  
I would be your heroine._

For the first few days after April's death, Roger went through the drugs they had stashed around the loft. He was trying to wean himself off of the drugs. He reached the very end of it the day after her funeral. He woke up feeling like hell, feeling like he needed a hit, and needed one badly.

He stumbled out into the kitchen where Mark and Collins were seated at the table. They both looked up and stopped their hushed conversation.

"You all right?" Collins asked him.

"I need your help."

The words were hard to force out. Roger did not ask for help because no one ever gave it. His body wanted to stay on the drugs but his mind was screaming at him to stop. Weaning himself off of them slowly had done nothing; he was still as addicted as ever.

"Okay." Mark said slowly.

"I don't want to go to rehab," he said softly. "I can't do that."

"You don't have to Rog." Collins said. He pushed a cup of black coffee across the table to Roger.

Roger took a sip of the bitter liquid and though it burned his throat he gulped it down. He continued. "April couldn't find a reason to get off the drugs, but I guess she left me with a pretty good one, huh? I just, I can't do it myself. There is absolutely no way I can… God, I need a hit.

"We're here Roger." Collins said.

Roger looked at him. "I'm sorry I wasn't there for you more, man. I mean, when you got diagnosed I wasn't-"

"Don't Roger." Collins held up his hands, "Don't apologize. Just get your ass off these drugs."

"It's not going to be easy. It's going to take a long time."

"No shit." Mark muttered sarcastically.

His hands were shaking as he picked up the coffee cup again. He put it down.

"Fuck."

"We'll get through this. Just relax."

Roger looked at Collins, the tears he'd wanted to shed for over a week spilling out of his eyes.

"Where do I even start?"

Mark pushed a bottle of pills across the table and said three words that would become engraved in Roger's mind over the next few years.

"Take your AZT."

_I never thought you'd last,  
I never dreamed you would.  
You watch your life go past,  
You wonder if you should._

She was beautiful. That was the first thing he thought when he opened the door. She was dark, slim and beautiful. She was nothing like the girls he had dated before in looks.

Except for her eyes.

She had big, deep, brown eyes. They were April's eyes, staring back at him from this stranger's face.

He hadn't been out of the game long enough to mistake her flirting for anything else. God, she was beautiful, but he just did not feel that he could even attempt a relationship. Not so soon after April's death, a year should not be long enough to move on. He had not even gotten back into music yet. He thought he'd have plenty of sad songs to write but his writer's block had been horrible. He hadn't penned a single one.

Then she brought up the smack.

Roger backpedaled immediately. He found it on the floor before she did and put them in his pocket. When he looked back on it he could not explain, even to himself, why he had taken it. He guessed that some part of him would always want the drugs. Thankfully, she did not miss it and took them back.

She was relentless, he'd give her that. She came back, climbing down the fire escape and dancing on the table. And then she had kissed him.

Being kissed like that after a year of being alone made him pause. Fir a moment he kissed her back. Then it struck him. AIDS. He pulled back.

The argument that ensued almost did him in. She spoke words and promises of hope. Roger had to force himself to think solely of the drugs she had, of the disease in his veins.

But she was breaking him down. Finally he stood and chased her out the door, forced her to leave. He watched out the window as she left the building and disappeared around the corner. Then he just sat, staring around the loft.

He could almost hear it; April's laughter. He could hear the sound of her voice yelling across the loft, enticing him to their room for the latest drugs she had bought. He glanced toward the bathroom and all he saw was red.

He closed his eyes. He should have been dead by now. With all he had been through he should have died. It still felt as though it had all been a bad dream.

He didn't know what possessed him. He threw on his jacket and headed out the door, rejoining the world.

_You should be my punk rock princess,  
I would be your garage band king.  
You could tell me why you just don't fit in,  
And how you're gonna be something._

She was shivering on her couch when he walked into the apartment. She was staring at a full needle sitting on the coffee table. He said nothing and neither did she. They just stared at one another for a tense moment.

"Where'd you get it?" he asked.

"Found an old stash behind the bathroom mirror." She whispered. Her voice was wavering.

"Is there any more?"

She shook her head.

Roger drained the liquid into the sink and threw the syringe into the trash. He walked over to where she was sitting on the couch. She was still shaking, and it hurt to watch her like this. He remembered how painful it had been.

"How are you doing?"

She shook her head, and he noticed the tears streaming down her face. "It hurts so fucking bad."

He sat down next to her on the couch, gathering her up into his arms, running a hand through her curls. She was soaking wet and shivering. It brought back painful memories. He tightened his arms around her. In turn, she gripped the front of his shirt for dear life, burying her face into his shoulder as she sobbed.

"You're doing great, baby." He spoke quietly.

"I just want it to be over."

"I know. I know. You're doing a great job. It's just going to take a little while longer." He combed his fingers through her hair.

"I don't want to do this anymore."

His mind raced back to April. "Please don't say that."

She was shivering more. He picked her up off the couch with almost no effort. Despite her weak protest he carried her into the bedroom and wrapped her in the heaviest blanket he could find. He just lay down next to her and sat there with her until she fell asleep. He had to get rid of that needle before she woke up. It was hard, but he felt a lot better about defeating his own withdrawal. He and Mimi would be so happy once they were past this.

- - -

Mimi was having a good week and had gone to work. He was supposed to meet her out in front afterward. He refused to walk into the club anymore so he walked around the front door, doing his best to avoid the stare of the bouncer. She was late.

Another girl, a blonde a few years older than Mimi walked out. He recognized her.

"Hey, you seen Mimi."

"She went out the back about five minutes ago." The girl didn't even look at him, just dug through her purse for a cigarette.

Roger cursed and backpedaled to the corner of the building. Back doors to clubs were usually the way out to score some drugs. Sure enough, he turned the corner just in time to see her taking a small packet of white powder from the man.

He said nothing, just quickened his pace, nearly on her before she turned away from him. The man walked away. What did he care about what happened to her or the drugs once he had made his sale?

Her eyes went wide when she saw him, and she clutched the bag to her chest, bending over and backing away from him.

"Roger, please don't. Please, I just need one hit!"

He grabbed her face in both hands, forcing her to stand straight.

"You're stronger than this, baby. Listen to me, you can do this."

"I can't," she yelled. "I don't want to anymore. I don't want to quit. I need it more than anything."

"I know it's hard, but you can do it."

"Leave me alone!"

She tried to pull away but as she did so he grabbed the packet out of her hands, throwing it into the trash. Mimi was desperate, but not desperate enough that she would search through a dumpster for that bag. The look she gave him hurt. She turned and strode away.

Roger watched her go. He wondered to himself what would have happened if he and April had tried to quit together, if they would have made it. He wondered if he and Mimi would make it. Lately the withdrawal had made her hate him more and more. She had broken things off with him several times, screaming that she never wanted to see him again. He kept coming back because he loved her, and because she needed someone.

Now he wondered how long it would be before she pushed him away for good.

_If I could be your first real heartache,  
I would do it over again.  
If you could be my punk rock princess,  
I would be your heroine._

Things needed to change

Mimi wanted to quit but needed a reason. That experience around Christmas and Roger were reason enough for her. She quit cold turkey. Even he did not understand how she did it. When a friend of hers offered a hit on his birthday and she passed it up as though it were nothing she would have considered he knew she was through it. The shivering and chills had stopped ages ago and she hadn't mentioned it to him at all.

He walked up behind her and kissed the back of her neck, wrapping one arm tightly around her waist. She melted back into him.

"What?"

He smiled down at her as she turned back to look at him.

"I saw that."

She blushed, "Don't do that. It's not a big deal."

She turned around to face him and he wrapped his arms tight around her waist, pressing their foreheads together.

"Yes it is."

He kissed her. Among their friends, the people he considered his family, and the most important people in his life he kissed his girlfriend. They were all clean and as healthy as could be expected. Even though they were all, in a sense, dying, he felt better than he had in years.

He pulled her onto the dance floor with him. Although the song playing was fast paced he held her close and danced slowly with her. He got a few looks, a few outright stares, and a few catcalls from his friends at the bar. He didn't care about any of it. All he cared about was having her in his arms for a little bit longer.

When they finally returned to the bar Mark was holding out Roger's guitar. That had been part of the plan. He hadn't been onstage since April, and the club was giving him an opportunity.

As he slung the strap over his shoulder the familiar clenching in his stomach started up. He took a long deep breath and muttered, "Okay."

They all walked with him to the stage, no doubt to be the obnoxious type of crowd they had always been. Mimi grabbed hold of his shirt as he prepared to climb onstage, kissing him hard on the mouth before whispering in his ear, "So I finally get to see the infamous Roger Davis perform."

He chuckled a little and kissed her cheek, doubting she knew how much she had helped him.

He got onstage and played 'Your Eyes' with his guitar. The applause was amazing. He felt like he had never left. At the request of the crowd he played a few more songs, old one's he'd written about the other women in his life.

When he hopped off the stage and started through the crowd there were people patting him on the back left and right. He smirked. The feeling was so familiar, and though, the high far better than the drugs had ever been.

"Excuse me, Mr. Davis."

He turned around as he felt the hand on his arm. A man a few years older than himself had a grip on Roger's elbow.

"My name's Michael Duggan. I set up music for Joe's Pub and a few of the other smaller clubs around here. If you're interested I would love to set up a few gigs for you."

Roger was shocked but he managed to nod.

"Yeah. Yeah, that'd be great. I've been trying to get back into doing some performing."

"There's a spot open at Joe's this Friday night. It's one of our earlier slots, but, hey, you've got to start somewhere, right?" He handed Roger a card, "Give me a call. We'll call it an audition."

"Thank you," he nodded, "I'll umm… I'll give you a call sometime tomorrow."

"Look forward to hearing from you." He disappeared back into the crowd as another singer took the stage.

When Roger reached the bar Mimi launched herself into his arms. Her kiss was warm and familiar. He held her tight and when she pulled back he saw the tears in her eyes.

"You were great baby."

He wiped away a tear that was running down her cheek. She always cried when he sang her song.

"I love you."

"I love you too."

Before he could say anything else the beginning line of 'Happy Birthday' rang through horrible off key as Mark, Collins, Maureen, Joanne and a few other choice friends surrounded him with a cupcake holding a single candle and a round of shots.

He laughed and happily blew out the candle and swallowed down the shot. He held up the glass to proclaim his announcement.

"Ladies and gentlemen, guess who has a gig at Joe's Pub, and possibly a recurring job?"

There was an uproar of questions and shouts of happiness from all of them. Mimi jumped into his arms again. Collins' jovial yell rang above all others as he yelled to the bartender.

"Dave! Get me an Irish Car Bomb. We got some celebrating to do and this boy needs to get good and drunk!"

Roger laughed out loud and leaned down to whisper in Mimi's ear. "One of Collins' crazy drinks and then I want to take you home."

She smiled warmly at him, "Anything you want."

_Whoa! You know!  
You only burn my bridges  
Whoa! You know!  
You just can't let it sink in!  
You could be my heroine._

Mimi had never been quite the same since her brush with death that Christmas. She was healthy and got through withdrawal fine. Most of the time she was convincing. But Roger saw a side of her that no other had the chance to. He knew. He knew she was never quite what she had been.

He was not surprised when she passed late the following spring. Not to say it didn't hurt, because it did. It didn't hurt quite as much as it had burying April. She had lived every second of her life to the fullest, especially once she had gotten off the drugs. She didn't die alone, and she didn't die in pain. That was what was important to him.

She was going to be his last. He ignored any advances and did not so much as look at the girls in the clubs. He mourned privately and quietly. His friends saw a slight change, but he bounced back a lot quicker than anyone had expected.

Tonight was his first performance since her death. He was dreading reaching the club because of the anxiety he'd become accustomed too. There had always been girls to kiss it away and for the first time in a long time he had no one.

"You going to be okay?" Mark asked as they walked along the sidewalk.

Roger nodded.

"Are you going to sing 'you Eyes'?"

"No." Roger said, "I think I'm going to retire that song. I never sang it unless Mimi was in the audience and I don't plan to."

"What'll you sing?"

"I wrote a new song."

Mark stopped dead in his tracks, clutching his chest, faking shock. "_You_? You, Roger Davis wrote a song?"

Roger just shook his head laughing. "Shut up."

They reached the door and he took a deep breath, preparing for it to start. He stepped inside and nothing changed.

"Roger?"

"I'll see you after the show, Mark."

As he sat backstage the anxiety never came. As they introduced him he stood just out of site taking a few deep breaths and thinking of all of his girls. He didn't regret any of it, not a single moment. He thought about the drugs. Despite all the hardship it had brought him he didn't regret it. It had taught him a lot. He thought about the music, the one addiction, the one mistress that would never abandon him.

He walked onstage and sat on a wooden stool in front of a microphone. He had decided to take up a quieter note in his performances. He sat there for a moment, even after the lights turned on, waiting for the panic to hit him. It never did.

Finally, just as the silence in the room was becoming uncomfortable he spoke.

"I've had a lot of addictions in my life. All of them have somewhat revolved around my first and most important addiction, music." He waited for the applause to die down before he continued. "So I want to sing you a song I wrote about my addictions…"

_You could be my heroine._

Fin.

A/N: I am so surprised that no one has used this song yet. I mean, even the first time I heard it it made me think of Roger. My idea for this fic has changed dramatically and even when I finally started to type it out last week it wrote itself and came out very differently than I planned. You may love it, you may hate it, but here it is.

Leave reviews.

That is all.

Hotshot


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